


I Break Your Plates (So It Must Be Love)

by endquestionmark



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-30 23:51:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endquestionmark/pseuds/endquestionmark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt "Peter threw the first punch at Tarr. He's isn't sure when the kicking turned into kissing."</p>
<p>Originally posted anonymously <a href="http://ttss-kink.livejournal.com/926.html?thread=414#t414">here</a> at the kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Break Your Plates (So It Must Be Love)

When Tarr opens the door, Guillam hits him very hard in the mouth, several times.

He can't help but wish that he'd done this two weeks ago, before Haydon went out for a walk and never came back and the Circus had gone to hell in a handbasket. It wouldn't have made a difference but it would have made him feel a great deal better.

Guillam hasn't slept well since Smiley called him in for a crash meeting as de factohead of the Circus, and he's aware of the dark circles under his eyes and the fact that he ran into two lampposts and a mailman on the way to this flat.

Tarr raises a hand to his mouth and swipes messily at the blood welling from his split lip, and Guillam realizes that maybe it isn't only his coordination that's compromised, because he can't stop staring at the bright red, and he wants to lean forward and lick across Tarr's bottom lip and taste the coppery blood.

"That's for Irina, you bastard," he says nonsensically, and regrets it almost immediately when Tarr's expression closes off, goes flat and dead as a slate tile.

"Fuck off," he says, and closes the door in Guillam's face. Guillam feels almost guilty.

\---

"The fuck are you doing in my kitchen," Guillam says, knee on Tarr's chest and a hand around his throat.

"Trying to break all your dishes," Tarr gasps, voice weak and raw, and Guillam remembers to let go of his throat and let him breathe.

"That's very petty," he says.

"So were you," Tarr says, coughing. There are already red marks on his throat, and Guillam idly wonders if he bruises easily. He gets up and watches Tarr struggle to his feet, leaning on the counter. They're quiet for a moment.

"I'd offer you coffee," Guillam says, "but seeing as you were about to break the carafe you can bloody well buy your own."

"Fine," Tarr snaps.

"And you can buy me one too," Guillam adds.

\---

"Latte," Tarr says. "What kind of fucking coffee is that."

"Sophisticated," Guillam says. "Not your sort of thing."

"Say that again," Tarr says, leaning in.

"Sophisticated," Guillam drawls, taking a sip of his coffee.

Tarr sits back, satisfied, and Guillam kicks him under the table just to see him spill his coffee.

"Who's the petty tosser now," Tarr says, and pours the rest of his coffee down Guillam's shirt.

"Fuck!" Guillam says, trying to jump in three directions at once and falling out of his chair.

Tarr looks ridiculously pleased, and Guillam wants to kick that Cheshire cat grin right off his face.

\---

"What the fuck," Tarr says, and Guillam is in equal measure embarrassed and worried about the state of his ribs.

"Let me up, fuck," he gasps, and Tarr doesn't move at all from where he's sitting on Guillam's back.

"Are you really trying to set my bed on fire," Tarr says, leaning down to rest his chin on top of Guillam's head. Guillam shakes him off, and now his lips are next to Guillam's ear.

"No," Guillam lies instinctively, and Tarr laughs, the vibrations of it tickling Peter.

"No," Tarr says mockingly, "you just sneak into strange men's bedrooms in the middle of the night. You know, there's easier ways to get off."

"Fuck you," Guillam hisses, "fuck you," and he somehow twists and throws Tarr off without breaking his own arm or ribs, and their faces are very close in the dark. Guillam is very aware of this suddenly, and the fact that Tarr isn't wearing a shirt, and he's furious.

"Or can't Mr. Guillam get a leg over?" Tarr says, sing-song. "Are his standards too high - "

"Shut up," Guillam says, and he can't think of a better way to punctuate it than by leaning in and kissing Tarr, hard, biting savagely at his mouth, the way he's wanted to do for years, fucking years.

Tarr doesn't move for a second, and Guillam's blood goes cold, because this is the end in that case, the end for him in the Circus and in London if this goes terribly bad.

Then Tarr growls, a rumble against Guillam's chest, and surges up off the floor, pulls Guillam close and kisses back, and it's raw and rough and glorious, the scrape of his stubble and the edges of his teeth.

"You," Tarr says to Guillam, "are the most buttoned-up repressed tight-arse that I have ever met."

"Shut up," Guillam says again, sliding hands down to Tarr's hips, "shut up, shut up -"

He breaks off as Tarr pulls at his shirt, because even for midnight housebreaking pyromaniac expeditions he dresses nicely, and black silk is nothing to be scoffed at. "Let me," he says, and undoes the buttons one at a time, pulls down his trousers and toes off his shoes.

"Fuck," Tarr says, "fuck," and he pushes Guillam backwards to the bed and kneels in front of him to mouth at the line of his cock under his briefs, tongue at the spreading dampness on the fabric.

"Jesus," Guillam says, and digs his fingers into the sheets as Tarr drags down his briefs and takes Guillam in one slow, slow movement, and then the head of his cock bumps the back of Tarr's throat and he's swearing, saying the filthiest things, and Tarr just sucks him harder, and he does something with his tongue that has Guillam blaspheming most world religions, and gasping for air.

"God, you were made for this," he says, looking down at Tarr's lips, stretched around his cock, and Tarr swallows, letting the movement of his throat work for him, before sliding back up Guillam's body.

"And you were made to be reamed," he says into Guillam's ear, hot and breathy and hoarse, and Guillam chokes and reaches down to curl his hand around Tarr's cock and stroke, hard, until Tarr is whimpering against his chest, fingers curled tight around his hips. He'll have bruises for a week.

"Then fuck me," he murmurs to Tarr, and Tarr's breath hitches.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Guillam, sir," Tarr says, and that's ridiculously dirty, but Guillam rolls them over and straddles Tarr as Tarr slides oil-slick fingers into him. The muscles in Guillam's thighs are cramping and Tarr is going far too slowly, so Guillam reaches back and grabs Tarr's wrist and fucks himself on Tarr's thick fingers, gasping.

Tarr looks as if he's about to say something, but he twists and scissors his fingers and Guillam cries out.

"God, you're tight," Tarr says after all. "I knew you were when I saw you in those suits," and he pulls his fingers away and Guillam uses one hand to position Tarr's cock and he slams down, just so that Tarr will stop talking, and maybe a little to see his mouth go slack as he jerks up on the bed.

He rides Tarr hard, and the bedroom is quiet except for the sounds they make, the slide of sweaty flesh and Guillam's gasps for air and Tarr's endless string of muttered curses. It's hard and raw and brutal, and Guillam revels in the burn and stretch of it, and he twists himself down again and again until his lungs seem to catch fire.

Tarr moves then, pushes Guillam back to a whole new angle, and Guillam realizes that he's making desperate, needy sounds, and Tarr is dark-eyed and drinking them in. Guillam has no pride now, because if he doesn't come he thinks he'll die, he thinks his heart will tear itself apart, and so he leans down to Tarr's ear and whispers, "Please, god, Ricki, god, you're so good," and Tarr's eyes go wide and his hips stutter.

He wraps one big, warm hand around Guillam's cock, and uses the other to pull Guillam down hard, and it's too much, and Peter sobs as he comes over Tarr's hand and chest, and Tarr fucks up into him once, twice, and Peter feels Tarr pulse inside him, warm and wet.

They rock together on the bed until Guillam collapses, gasping, and rolls off of Tarr onto the ruined sheets.

"That was petty," he says into the darkness, and he feels Tarr smile against his shoulder.

"You would know," he says, and they fall asleep that way until the next morning, when Guillam takes out the sheets and burns them and Tarr buys them coffee.

Guillam catches him looking speculatively at his cup and kicks him in the shin preemptively.

"Wanker," Tarr says.

"Arse," Guillam says.

Then he throws his coffee at Tarr.


End file.
